A certain languor, which was felt by everyone except the Dowager, hung over the company. After the bustle and the excitement of the ball, the smaller party seemed flat. Between two of the persons seated at the table there was constraint; others had been provided with food for grave reflection; and only between the Dowager and the Chaplain could conversation have been said to have flourished. From the combined circumstances of being largely impervious to fatigue, and not having exerted herself beyond what was strictly necessary during the past twenty-four hours, the Dowager was not conscious of weariness, but enlivened the dinner-table with several more anecdotes about her father, and a recapitulation of the excellence of the arrangements for the ball, and the pleasure evinced at their entertainment by the guests. In this exercise she was assisted by Mr. Clowne, who indefatigably corroborated her statements, laughed heartily at her anecdotes, and generally enacted the role of antistrophe. Her care for his interests had placed Martin beside Marianne at the table, but her absorption in her own conversation prevented her from perceiving that for the first half of dinner, at least, this disposition was not a happy one. Such laboured attempts at engaging Marianne’s attention as were embarked upon by Martin were met by shy, monosyllabic responses, and it was not until Gervase, abandoning Miss Morville to his cousin, began to talk to Marianne, interpolating such leading questions as must draw Martin into the conversation, that the ice between these old acquaintances melted. It was with relief that those who knew him best realized that Martin’s mood was chastened. He seemed to have laid aside his sulks, and to be determined to conduct himself, even towards his brother, with a civility that bordered on affability. His manner to Marianne could hardly have been bettered, for he behaved as though he had forgotten the events of the previous evening. A lucky remark of the Earl’s enabled him to say to Marianne: “Do you remember — ?” She did remember, and in unexceptionable reminiscence was able to see in him again her favourite playfellow. Her constraint became noticeably less; and by the time the dessert was set upon the table she was chatting freely to Martin, and the Earl was able to turn back to Miss Morville. Since the Dowager had applied to Theo for the details of a very dull story with which she was boring the Viscount, she had been neglected for several minutes, but she met the Earl’s look with a warm smile of approval.
“I do beg your pardon!” Gervase said, in an undervoice.
“Indeed, you need not!” she returned, in the same tone. “It was very well done of you.”
When the ladies left the room, Martin did not abate his good-humour. The cloth was removed from the table, the port and the madeira set upon it, while he conversed with the Viscount; and when the Viscount was drawn into a three-cornered discussion with Theo and Mr. Clowne, he only hesitated for a moment before changing his seat for the vacant one beside his brother.
The Earl regarded him pensively over the top of his wineglass, but he said nothing. Martin raised his eyes, as though forcing himself to look him boldly in the face, and said: “St. Erth, I — Well — What I mean is — ”
“Yes?” said Gervase encouragingly.
“It’s only — St. Erth, I shouldn’t have done it, of course! I didn’t mean to, only — ”
“Shouldn’t have done what?”
“Last night — Marianne!”
“Oh!”
“The thing was, you see — ”
“You need not tell me,” Gervase interrupted, smiling. “I know very well what the thing was.”
He saw the flicker of fire in the eyes so swiftly meeting his own at these words. He held them in a steady regard, and after a moment they fell, and Martin uttered a self-conscious laugh, and said: “Yes — I suppose! The thing is, ought I, do you think, to say anything to her?”
“On that subject? By no means! Let it go!”
Martin looked relieved. He drained his glass, found the decanter at his elbow, and refilled the glass, saying: “Then you don’t think I should beg her pardon?”
“You would only cause her embarrassment.”
“I daresay you may be right.” Martin sipped his wine reflectively, and set his glass down again. “I wish that gray of yours had not cut his legs!” he said suddenly. “The most curst mischance! Can’t think how he came to do so!”
“Or how I came to be thrown so ignominiously?” suggested the Earl, watching him.
“Oh, there’s nothing in that! Everyone takes a stupid toss or so in his life! But your gray is a capital hunter! I would not have had him scar himself for a fortune!”
At this moment, the Viscount demanded that the decanter should be set in motion, and the conversation became general.
When the gentlemen presently joined the ladies, there was some talk of getting up a game of speculation, but the Dowager, who did not wish to play cards, said that everyone would prefer the indulgence of a little music, and begged Marianne to go to the pianoforte. Marianne looked very much alarmed, and assured her ladyship that her performance was not at all superior. When the Dowager showed no sign of accepting this excuse, she looked imploringly at Miss Morville, who at once responded to the silent appeal, rising from her chair, and saying: “I am sure Lady St. Erth would like to hear you sing, Marianne; and, if you will allow me, I shall be pleased to play for you.”
It was not quite what Marianne desired, but since she had a pretty voice, and knew herself to have been well-taught, it was infinitely preferable to being obliged to struggle through a Haydn sonata. She accompanied her friend to the instrument, and delighted the company with two or three ballads. Not very much persuasion was needed to induce her to join with Lord Ulverston in a duet. Their voices blended admirably; they discovered a similarity of musical taste in one another; and if their combined performance gave little pleasure to one member of their audience, everyone else enjoyed it very much, the Dowager going as far as to beat time with one foot, and to hum several of the refrains.
The party broke up early that evening, the ladies going to bed immediately after prayers. The Earl took his friend off to play billiards, and Martin, to his surprise, went with him. He was so obliging as to mark for them, a kindness which made Ulverston glance rather keenly at him, and say, later, to the Earl: “Your engaging young brother remorseful, eh?”
Gervase smiled. “I told you he was not far removed from a schoolboy. We may go on more comfortably now.”
“Shouldn’t be surprised if it was all a take-in,” replied the sceptical Viscount.
On the following day, both Miss Morville and Miss Bolderwood received missives from their mamas, Miss Bolderwood’s having been brought over by a groom from Whissenhurst. Lady Bolderwood was able to leave her room again, and was anxious to have her daughter restored to her; and it seemed, from the contents of two closely-written sheets from Mrs. Morville, that Drusilla too would soon be leaving Stanyon. The Lakeland scenery was very fine, but Greta Hall was rather too full of Coleridges, Mrs. Coleridge and her interesting offspring having apparently taken up permanent residence with the Southeys. Mrs. Morville wrote that a scheme was afoot to place poor Mr. Coleridge in the care of a gentleman living in Highgate. Mr. Southey had disclosed that his unfortunate brother-in-law had been consuming as much as two quarts of laudanum a week over the past couple of years. He gloomily believed that the charge of the children must fall upon his shoulders. He was already paying for Hartley’s University career, and had sent Derwent to a private school at Ambleside. Sara, the youngest of the trio, was precocious, Mrs. Morville considered; and there was too much reason to fear that Hartley had inherited his father’s instability of character. Mr. Morville, wrote his wife, was grieved to discover how far Mr. Southey had receded from his earlier and nobler ideals; for her part, Mrs. Morville could not wonder at it: she could only marvel at his being able to continue in the profession of author in the midst of such a household.
The Dowager expressed a gracious regret that they must bid farewell to Marianne that very day; at the prospect of soon losing Miss Morville’s companionship she evinced a flattering concern, reiterating with unwearied frequency her conviction that Mrs. Morville could not possibly wish for her daughter’s return to Gilbourne House.
To all her representations of the superior attractions of Stanyon over Gilbourne House Miss Morville returned civil but firm answers. Lord Ulverston begged to be granted the honour of escorting Miss Bolderwood to her own home, and upon Martin’s saying hastily that he had the intention of performing this office, became afflicted with a deafness much more distressing to Martin than himself. Marianne blushed, thanked, and looked uncertain; after allowing the Dowager time to announce that she would herself drive to Whissenhurst with her young guest, Miss Morville said that she would like the drive. The Dowager had no objection to put forward to this, and the end of it was that the two ladies occupied the barouche, while Ulverston and St. Erth rode behind.
Arrived at Whissenhurst Grange, Marianne begged her three companions to enter the house, and to partake of refreshment there. The Earl demurred at this, thinking that the invalids might not wish for such an invasion, but while Marianne was assuring him that Mama would be disappointed if he did not come in to pay his respects to her, Sir Thomas was seen standing at the window of one of the front parlours, waving and beckoning. They all went into the house, therefore, and Lord Ulverston was made known to the Nabob and his lady. Wine and cakes were sent for, and while the Earl enquired after the state of Sir Thomas’s health, Marianne, standing a little apart, beside the Viscount, said shyly that she supposed he would be leaving Stanyon very soon too. But it seemed that the Viscount had no immediate intention of leaving Stanyon. Marianne was surprised, and said, looking innocently up into his face: “I quite thought that you stayed only for the ball!”
“No — oh, no!” Ulverston responded. “Don’t quite know how long I shall be fixed at Stanyon!”
“Shall you be in town when we give our ball?” asked Marianne.
“Yes,” replied his lordship promptly. “Will Lady Bolderwood send me a card?”
“Oh, yes! I hope you will be able to come to it!”
“Not a doubt of it, Miss Bolderwood: I shall most certainly come to it! When do you remove to London?”
“I believe, in a fortnight’s time — if Papa’s illness has not overset our plans.”
“A fortnight? Just when I shall be going to London myself!” he said.
“But you said you did not know when you should be going!” she pointed out, laughing a little.
“Quite true! I didn’t! You had not told me then how long you would be remaining in Lincolnshire.”
She looked charmingly confused, her art of coquetry deserting her, and could only blush more than ever, and pretend to be busy with the retying of one of the knots of ribbon which adorned her dress.
Sir Thomas, meanwhile, who had been persuaded to resume both his seat by the fire and the plaid shawl which had been draped round his shoulders, said to the Earl: “Who is this young fellow, eh, my lord? What did you say his name was?”
“Ulverston: he is Wrexham’s eldest son, and, like myself, has lately sold out of the Army.”
“H’m!” Sir Thomas’s shrewd gaze dwelled for a minute on the Viscount and Marianne. “I like the cut of his jib,” he decided.
“He is the best of good fellows.”
Lady Bolderwood seemed also to like the Viscount, which was not surprising, since he seized the first opportunity that offered of seating himself on the sofa beside her, and making himself agreeable. Upon hearing that he was staying for the present at Stanyon, she very cordially invited him to come to Whissenhurst with the Earl to an informal party she had the intention of giving before leaving for London. He accepted, but he did not feel it to be incumbent upon him to tell her that she might expect to have the pleasure of seeing him at Whissenhurst considerably before this date.
The Stanyon party soon took leave, and Lady Bolderwood went with Marianne upstairs to her dressing-room, in the expectation of hearing every detail of her visit. She did indeed hear that Marianne had enjoyed herself very much, that Lady St. Erth had been kind, and dear Drusilla very kind, that the ball had been delightful, and she had had so many partners she could not remember the half of them; but it seemed to her that her daughter was rather abstracted. She supposed that she was tired from so much excitement, and expected her to profit by a long night’s rest. But on the following morning Marianne was more abstracted than ever; paid very little need to Mr. Warboys, who called at Whissenhurst on the plausible excuse of wishing to know how Sir Thomas was going on; and was three times discovered by her Mama to be lost in some day-dream: once when she should have been practising her music, once when she had been desired to wash the Sevres ornaments in the drawing-room, and once when she should have been setting stitches in the sampler destined for her Aunt Caroline. Lady Bolderwood felt herself to be obliged to speak reprovingly to her, pointing out to her that if she allowed herself to be so much affected by one country-ball, a Season in London would transform her into a good-for-nothing miss, never happy except when at a party. Much discomposed, Marianne bent over the sampler, murmuring that it was not that,and indeed she did not care so very much for parties.
“Well, my love, you must not let Stanyon make you discontented, you know. I daresay the Rutlands, and their set, may have been very agreeable, but I did not like to see you so uncivil to poor Barny Warboys.”
“Oh, no,Mama!” Marianne protested, tears starting to her eyes.
“You did not make him very welcome, did you? One should never discard old friends, my dear, for new ones.”
“I did not mean — I have the head-ache a little!” Marianne faltered. “ Indeed I did not mean to be unkind to Barny!”
“No, my love, I am persuaded you would not mean to be unkind,” Lady Bolderwood said, patting her cheek. “It is just that your mind is running a little too much on your pleasuring at Stanyon. There I don’t cry! I know I have only to give you a hint.”
Marianne kissed her, and promised amendment. She did indeed perform conscientiously such tasks as were given her, but her spirits were uneven. At one moment she would be her merry self, at the next she would be pensive, slipping away to walk by herself in the shrubbery, or sitting with her eyes bent on the pages of a book, and her thoughts far away. The various young gentlemen who paid morning-visits to Whissenhurst found her gay, but disinclined to flirt with them, a change which Lady Bolderwood at first saw with satisfaction, and which soon led her to suspect that Marianne might have got into a scrape at Stanyon. When Martin came to Whissenhurst, and was met by Marianne with unaccustomed formality, she was sure of it, and she begged her daughter to tell her what had occurred. Marianne, hanging down her head, admitted that Martin had tried to make love to her, but she hastened to add that it had not been so very bad, and Drusilla had thought it would be foolish to refine too much upon it.
“Drusilla Morville is a very sensible girl,” said Lady Bolderwood approvingly. “She is perfectly right, and perhaps I am not sorry that it happened, for it has made you see what flirting leads to, my dear, and in future you will take better care, I am sure.”
She believed that the want of tone in Marianne’s spirits was now accounted for, but when she confided the story to her husband he disconcerted her by saying in his bluff way: “Well, Mama, you should know your daughter best, but it’s the first time I ever heard of a girl’s moping about the house because a handsome young fellow shows himself to be head over ears in love with her!”
“My dear Sir Thomas, I am persuaded she was much shocked by Martin’s behaviour — ”
“Shocked! Ay, so she might be, the naughty puss! But that’s no reason why she should peck at her dinner, and sit staring into the fire when she thinks we ain’t watching her. No, no, my lady, if it’s young Frant who has made her lose her appetite, you may call me a Dutchman!”
His wife smiled indulgently, and shook her head, but events proved Sir Thomas to have been right. On the very next morning, when Marianne sat in the window of the front parlour with her Mama, helping her to hem some handkerchiefs, a horseman was seen trotting up the drive. Lady Bolderwood did not immediately recognize him, and she was just wondering aloud who it could be when she became aware of an extraordinary change in her listless daughter. Marianne was blushing, her head bent over her stitchery, but the oddest little smile trembling on her lips. In great astonishment, Lady Bolderwood stared at her.
“I think — I believe — it is Lord Ulverston, Mama!” murmured Marianne.
Lord Ulverston it was, and in a very few moments he was shaking hands with them, fluently explaining that since his way led past their house he could not but call to enquire whether Sir Thomas and her ladyship were quite recovered from their indispositions. Lady Bolderwood’s astonishment grew, for as he turned from her to take Marianne’s hand in his she perceived such a glowing look in her daughter’s countenance, such a shy yet beaming smile in her eyes as made her seem almost a stranger to her own mother.
Sir Thomas, informed by a servant of his lordship’s arrival, then entered the room, and made the Viscount heartily welcome. To his lady’s considerable indignation, he bestowed on her a quizzing look which informed her how far more exactly he had read their daughter’s mind than she had. The Viscount stayed chatting easily for perhaps half an hour, and if his eyes strayed rather often to Marianne’s face, and his voice underwent a subtle change when he had occasion to address her, his conduct was otherwise strictly decorous. When he rose to depart, Sir Thomas escorted him to the front-door. No sooner, however, was the parlour-door shut behind them than his lordship requested the favour of a few words with his host.
“Ho! So that’s it, is it?” said Sir Thomas. “Well, well, you had better come into my library, my lord, I suppose!”
When Sir Thomas presently rejoined his ladies, and they had watched the Viscount riding away, Marianne asked if he had been showing his Indian treasures to his lordship.
“Ay, that was it,” replied Sir Thomas, chuckling. But when Marianne had left the room, he said to his wife, with one of his cracks of mirth: “Indian treasures! It wasn’t any Indian treasure his lordship came after!”
“Good heavens!” she exclaimed. “You cannot, surely, mean that he has made an offer for Marianne?”
“That’s it. Came to ask my permission to pay his addresses to her, just as he ought.”
“But he has only been acquainted with her a few days!”
“What’s that got to say to anything? I knew my mind five minutes after I met you, my lady!”
“She is too young! Why, she is not yet out!”
“Ay, so I told him. I said we could not sanction any engagement until she had seen a bit of the world.”
She regarded him with suspicion. “Sir Thomas, do you mean to tell me you gave him permission to pay his addresses?”
“Why, I said if my girl loved him I would not say no,” he confessed. “It would be no bad thing for her, you know, Maria. Setting aside the title, he’s just the cut of a man I fancy for my little puss. He ain’t after her fortune: from what he tells me, he’s a man of comfortable fortune himself. I can tell you this, I’d as lief her affections were engaged before we expose her to all the handsome young scamps with high-sounding titles and lean purses who are hanging out in London for rich wives!”
“I am persuaded she would never — ”
“Maria, my dear, there’s no saying what she might do, for she’s not up to snuff, like some of the young ladies I’ve seen, and when a girl is heiress to a hundred thousand pounds every needy rascal will be paying court to her! A pretty thing it would be if she chose to set her heart on a man that only wants her fortune!”
“Yes, yes, but — My dear Sir Thomas, you run on so fast! You do not consider! The Wrexhams might not care for the match, after all!”
He gave a dry chuckle. “There’s only one thing could make the Wrexhams, or any other high family, dislike it, Maria, and that’s for me to gamble my fortune away on ’Change!” he said.